


Game

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, M/M, Mentioned Character Death, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Season/Series 13, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 13:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11403675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: After his resurrection, Castiel flies.





	Game

**Author's Note:**

> _Kiss me till my heart dies_  
>  Kisses so sweet I lose my mind  
> Tonight, be the poison that stills my heart  
> If there is something that binds us, I can't see or feel it  
> Yet, I know for sure I love you

And God said, “Let there be light,” and Castiel saw the light, and fled as fast as his newly grown wings could carry him.

Jangled as they are, he still flies across the state line, across the continent, the oceans—one minute, he lands in Brussels on the banks of the Dyle, and the next, he crashes into a marketplace in Bangkok. Over and over, countless shifts repeating like clockwork, Castiel finds himself someplace new, his Grace fizzling behind his eyes, burning beneath his skin, the constant need to run, to escape and find a place that won’t hurt him, that won’t drive a blade through his chest.

That won’t send him to the Empty, not again— _never again_.

Dean calls somewhere around Moldova. It goes to voicemail in Nairobi. Again and again in a blind panic, he flies and lands for a total of two seconds, and every five minutes—or hours, or days; time loses focus after a while—Dean calls, and a minute later, Castiel’s phone receives a voicemail. He can’t bring himself to listen; even if he were stationary, he could never explain his actions. He can’t face Dean now, not after what happened. The warped universe that is and isn’t took its toll, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees the black and gray of the landscape, the remnants of his not-quite-siblings littered on the ground, impaled in dirt and rock and debris.

There, humanity is dead. Here, ever changing under his feet, people still exist, breathe, live—and somehow, Castiel is among them. It may have been five minutes, he thinks in São Paulo, dizzy and disoriented; five minutes of feeling nothing but darkness and his Grace being eaten away bit by bit, dissolved into nothing. The sweetest death he’s ever received; no pain, no misery, just the false comfort and terrifying unease of knowing that he _was_ dying, in slow motion with no one his witness.

Then he saw Dean—red eyed, cheeks wet and burning, shouting at a half-nude man with golden irises gleaming in the night, while Sam watched on, awestruck. It must’ve been Jack, in hindsight. But as Jack pulled Castiel from his half-formed grave, his malformed Grace burned through Castiel, pieced him together in a way Grace shouldn’t be handled, Jack’s very essence filled with corruption and the untainted brightness of a new soul, a new being brought into the light. Through the Nephilim, Castiel lives, but at what cost? Who suffered to bring Castiel back? Whose heart broke in the process?

Who would Castiel have left behind if the Empty disposed of him, permanently?

His wings begin to slow outside of Anchorage, exhaustion clinging to his bones, living within him. Full power can only run for so long before it begins to dwindle, and in this case, rapidly. Berlin, Sarasota, Austin, Marrakesh—they all begin to blur, and the people catching a glimpse of him begin to fade away, eyes dark and distant; he can’t bring himself to look anymore.

The inevitable collapse, when it comes, takes place in the parking lot of a motel just outside of Seattle, the sky a pale gray and omnipresent. Rain falls in a fine mist on his shoulders, wetting his bloodstained shirt; water splashes into his loafers from the asphalt, the chill of the air seeping into his clothes. Under a tree, Castiel looks at himself in a puddle, at the hole ripped through his coat and shirt and the scarless skin beneath, the dirt embedded under his nails, the sand in his hair. He finds his lips red and copper-tasting, unpleasant. Jack repaired his vessel and restored his Grace, but never bothered to fix the rest of him, down to the basics of his clothing, his body, his sanity.

Fifty dollars buys him a room, solely on his appearance alone. Another day, and Castiel would’ve paid full price, but the receptionist takes pity on him and sits him down in the breakfast nook, wiping the blood from his lip and cheek. “I hope you won,” she says with pursed lips, her eyes soft but scolding. “The other guy must look fantastic.”

Castiel swallows under her gaze, refusing to blink; he can’t even bring himself to speak, to let her know that he’s okay for now. What his killer is doing, though, Castiel refuses to think about.

He secures a room near the far end of the Econo Lodge, looking out at the tarp-covered pool, weighted down by the rain that never seems to end. All he has on him is his wallet, his cellphone with seventeen missed calls, now eighteen, and a water-stained photograph Dean gave him of the three of them, tucked in the interior pocket of his coat. The receptionist sells him toiletries for five dollars and points him to the strip mall on the other side of the road, and the Denny’s across the parking lot; as long as he can pay with his credit card and the cash he’s stolen off a few strangers, he can get by for a week, maybe two. Long enough to sort himself out.

As appealing as food might be, Castiel can’t bring himself to stomach anything the waitress at the diner brings him. It might warm up later, but for now, his pancakes go untouched, coffee cold in his hands. “It’s not your fault,” Castiel tells her when she comes by with the check; he tips her with the last of his cash, probably too generously, but she’s suffered through his silence long enough.

“You look like you could use a break,” she says as he stands, to-go box in hand. “Do you need someone to talk to?”

 _I do_ , Castiel thinks solemnly. _But I don't know if I can face him again_.

The room, when he returns, is muggy and damp, with one wall painted red and the rest an off-white that unsettles him. A picture of the United States made from license plates hangs on the wall, the only decoration there aside from the crack running along the roof. A single bed, a bathroom sink that drips, and a shower with enough water pressure to get by; he’s stayed in worse, and no doubt Dean and Sam have lived in more deplorable conditions through the years, but right now, it’s all Castiel has. A bed, an aged television set, and his phone.

Dean calls for the nineteenth time as Castiel places his food in the mini fridge underneath the microwave. He lets it go to voicemail again, unwilling to look at the screen, knowing who they’re all from. His message, though, is anybody’s guess. Shutting it off doesn’t make Castiel feel better, but it at least makes the noise stop, the thought of Dean’s words temporarily muffled with the shuttering electricity. Still, he lets it sit on the bedside table, the thought of Dean caring enough to call soothing a small sliver of the frayed Grace in his chest.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, not with the rattling air conditioner or the constant faint whine emanating from the refrigerator. Around two in the morning, in the pitch darkness with nothing by the streetlamp by the pool to guide his way, Castiel flips the television on and fumbles through the channels with one hand, not quite pulling himself out from under the sheets. Too much effort and too little strength to muster; he can barely keep his eyes open. Infomercials upon infomercials light up the screen, occasionally a news channel popping up, displaying news he could care less about. All politics, all disasters, nothing to quell the ache, only ripping it open further.

He cries on the morning of the nineteenth, eyes spilling over the moment he wakes from a fitful sleep and never quite stopping. No matter how many tissues he goes through or how often he tries with his bare arm, nothing eases the tears, and nothing stops the visions behind his eyes or the residual pain of a wound that no longer exists. Everything hurts, down to his core, the very fabric of his existence tainted, bleeding at the source. “Why me?” Castiel asks to the blurred ceiling, wetness seeping into his hairline. “Why me? Out of all of the other Angels, why did you pick me to suffer?”

No response; not that he ever expected one in the first place, but the silence guts him all the same. Outside, the rain falls harder, rippling in puddles and atop the few car roofs there are in the parking lot. The sun no longer exists, its warmth forgotten, exchanged for clouds and the cold wind and the ever-present feeling of loss.

 _But what did I lose_? Castiel asks himself, rolling onto his side, a chill rising up his naked back. His family, certainly—he fled in a moment of panic without an explanation, while Dean was still reconciling how Castiel was breathing and the Nephilim standing before them, and said Nephilim laying a hand on Castiel to resurrect what can’t be brought back, at least by Angels. God, however, is another creature entirely—and Jack may as well have eclipsed him.

Sam is probably trying to call now, Castiel considers in the dark, Dean probably too furious to control his temper. No matter who, Castiel refuses to turn his phone on, too trapped in his misery to do much other than hide his head under the pillow. Nearly nine years’ worth of repressed emotion floods him down to his toes, and given the energy, Castiel would tear apart the room to the fabric of its atoms just to vent his frustration. As of now, he can barely blink, let alone get out of bed to smash a lamp.

A day passes, and Castiel doesn’t move, not even when the receptionist knocks on his door to check on him. The rain still falls, the clouds still gather, and Castiel mourns his own death and sudden rebirth, and the utter confusion left in the wake. No answers, no reasons, just his life in his hands once again, fragile and useless. What is he supposed to do now? Carry on in the backseat of Dean’s car, drive in his truck across the country chasing down leads on his family, on Lucifer, on the Nephilim, like he didn’t just experience the closest to death he’s ever felt?

That bliss—the quiet, the solitude and the incomprehensible warmth that surrounded him in his final moments—haunts him, not because of how familiar it felt, but from how much he craved it. Because if he died, if the noise and the suffering and the pain ceased, then he wouldn't have to think of the two people he’d leave behind and their calls and the prayers and the tears. They don’t deserve to suffer, and Castiel doesn’t deserve to be mourned, let alone burnt or buried like he were someone special.

He was never special. Not to God, not to his siblings. Just broken, malfunctioning and tired.

That night, under the ever-gray sky and the streetlamps, Castiel reaches over and grabs his phone, holding it in both hands. A cold, heavy weight, but his only lifeline to civilization, even if he can’t bear to turn it on. Even then, holding it against his chest, it feels like a purpose, a reason to hold on. Lying in bed for days on end won’t help him, but maybe with this, he can at least know someone out there cares.

Not once has Dean prayed, at least sincerely; in the silence, Castiel can hear faint murmurings of his name, but always heated, fits of rage interspersed with whispers, but never any distinct words. Maybe they’re muffled, or they’re not exactly formed. Maybe the Nephilim has something to do with it. Where is he now? Has he run off to wreak havoc? Is he with Sam?

 _Where is Dean_?

The morning of day two brings hints of sun, but nothing to fruition. Meanwhile, in the last vestiges of the night, Castiel brandishes the courage to turn on his phone, only to be met by a record fifty-seven voicemails, forty-nine from Dean and the rest from Sam and that number that keeps calling him from Florida. All of them are the same, all chastising and crippling to listen to, one after the other, after the other.

_‘How could you be so fucking stupid?’_

_‘I thought we talked about you running off.’_

_‘I’m fine, by the way, in case you were wondering. Or maybe you’ve got something better to do that doesn’t include us.’_

_‘You couldn’t at least called and told me where you fucked off to.’_

_‘Don’t bother coming home.’_

Castiel closes his eyes against the tears, no matter how often he sleeps. Painful as it is, he deserves everything Dean spews into his ear, vile words in the heat of the moment, downright hateful things falling from drunken lips, and the occasional hiccups of hysteric sobs, begging Castiel to ‘ _Come home or I swear, I’ll kill you myself_.’

Sam is more hospitable, as always. Yes, he calls when Dean’s too busy drinking himself into a stupor, but he tells Castiel about Jack and now he’s doing, where the three of them have been for the last few days. “ _Dean’s started pacing a line in the kitchen_ ,” Sam says in one, timestamped 4:13 in the afternoon the day prior. “ _I’m getting worried about him. He’s gonna make himself sick. He just wants to know if you’re okay, Cas. You just left, you didn’t even look at us. Dean… We thought you were dead, and then Jack brought you back, and now you’re… We traced your phone_.”

Castiel’s heart skips.

“ _I couldn’t stop him. The minute I gave him the address, he took off. We barely got out of the car before you pinged off a cell tower. Just… Don’t be mad at him. He’s just as scared as you are. He thought you were gone, we both did, and after what Billie said…_ ” A pause, one that shatters Castiel’s resolve. “ _We don’t know what’s going on, but we want you here. You can’t just freak out on us and disappear like that—_ ”

Three loud bangs on the door, and Castiel drops his phone to the floor, the flip screen snapping shut. He doesn’t sit up so much as push himself up by his elbows, his body not fully supporting itself without help from his Grace. Someone enters after a minute or two of picking the lock, a man pushing his way inside in a rain soaked coat with equally damp hair, shoes in no way salvageable. The door slams; Castiel recoils and lowers himself back onto the mattress, pulling the sheets over his shoulders. “I wanted to be left alone,” Castiel mutters, curling into himself, just as a heavy weight sits by his feet, a hand cupping his calf. “Dean…”

“Shut up,” Dean scowls, but there’s a hint of softness there, exasperation turned to relief. “You ran off to fucking Renton?”

“Do you blame me?” Castiel questions, voice rough from disuse. The blankets don’t shield him from Dean’s gaze; the most they do is fend off the chill and keep Dean’s hand from touching him fully. “My own brother just murdered me in cold blood, and I was okay with it. I was fine, Dean, with dying. I’ve accepted my fate, and if it happened… Then at least I wouldn’t burden you anymore.”

He can practically hear Dean’s frown. “Cas—”

“Don’t.” Exhaling, Castiel sits up, knuckling his eyes dry. Dean takes notice but doesn’t speak, instead turning his eyes away. “Why do you think I’m here? If I didn’t care, do you think I would’ve stayed? You know how it feels to die.” Dean’s jaw twitches. “For one brief second, you feel nothing but relief. Innocence while your soul is weighed, weightlessness… I was ready to die. Because I wouldn't have to hurt you again, or Sam, or anyone. I could be free of this body. I could be _free_ , Dean. Do you know what that feels like, after having lived for so long, seeing more atrocities than you care to remember, touching the lives of the innocent and the wicked? Bled, suffered, died again and again… And this time, it was permanent.”

Dean closes his eyes; Castiel reaches out to touch him, places a cold hand over Dean’s wrist. “I wanted peace. And I can’t have it here.”

“You can,” Dean rumbles. He softens under Castiel’s hands, but refuses to move closer, or even acknowledge Castiel’s touch. “I know it’s not easy, being with us. But that doesn’t mean you need to die just so you can feel better about yourself.”

“But don’t you think about it? What it’d be like if you weren’t here anymore?”

At that, Dean faces him, hands in his lap, eyes narrowed. “…I’m listening.”

Gathering his limbs, Castiel pulls himself free of the sheets, only dressed in his underwear, the only thing not torn or impaled. Maybe he can fix his coat, or Dean can stitch it if his hands begin to wander; right now, looking at it makes Castiel’s stomach turn. “I know your soul. I’ve felt the pain you’ve endured, and I know how you long to make it stop, but you keep carrying on because you’re too stubborn to turn the knife on yourself. But I don’t have that drive.” Castiel ducks his head, closing wet eyes to his bare knee. “My entire existence has been a failure, from the beginning. I’ve wanted nothing more than to help people, and I’ve caused more harm than good. I’ve hurt you and your brother more than I care to recall.”

Dean lets out a breath through his nose, afterwards covering Castiel’s knee with his hand, thumbing over the curve. “You do help, though.”

“When was the last time I helped you, successfully?” Dean can’t answer that, Castiel knows. The air conditioner on the wall rattles itself to life, somehow more jarring than Dean leaning over to rest his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder, tacky with cooled sweat. “Were you running?”

“I checked every room,” Dean huffs, humorless. “You didn’t answer for two days. Shit, Cas, you could’ve been dead for all I know. How do you think I’m supposed to take that?”

“I was dead,” Castiel deadpans. Dean doesn’t laugh. Doesn't move, aside from sneaking his hands around Castiel’s back, warm in the chill of the room. “I wanted to be alone. I wasn’t supposed to survive that, I wasn’t supposed to…”

Dean sighs, warm against his neck. “But you’re alive. And whether you like it or not, Jack saved you. But you just gotta come home, and you gotta help us. ‘Cause Sam’s about to start teaching him God knows what if you don’t come back.” Another sigh; Castiel leans into Dean, resting his chin atop Dean’s head. “We can work it out. We can help you, we can… I can’t lose you like this.”

 _But you will_ , Castiel thinks. “I don’t want to be just a tool to you.” Dean rears back and looks at him, but all Castiel can see is the bed. “That’s what I am to you, aren’t I? That’s the only reason—”

“Don’t you dare.” Dean takes Castiel by the shoulders, jostling him a bit; Castiel just blinks at him, bewildered, his skin beginning to bruise under Dean’s fingers. “Why are you always… Shit, I ain’t gonna lie that you’re useful. You’re a fucking powerhouse and we’re lucky to have you, but that doesn’t matter. Look at me.” Castiel does, his eyes spilling once again. _When will they stop_? “I want you here for you. I’ve wanted you here forever, but you keep fucking off to God knows where and… Why are you crying?”

“I can’t stop,” is all Castiel can muster, just before Dean drags him into his arms with force; Castiel grunts with the pressure, his body beginning to tremble. From touch, from exhaustion, from existing, he doesn’t know. Can’t figure it out, no matter how long he thinks on it, how much it nags him. _I’m sad_ , he thinks, eyes pinched closed. _This is sadness. This is despair_. “I can’t stop, I can’t—”

“You’re okay,” Dean shushes into his ear. Deep at his core, Castiel wishes that were the truth. “You’re okay, I got you.”

“Make it stop,” Castiel begs. So pathetic, an Angel pleading to a human, but here he is, digging his fingers into Dean’s jacket, hysterically sobbing into his shoulder. No pretense, no shame—only the realization that no matter what he does, no matter how much he suffers, no matter how often he dies, he’ll always end up here, in one form or another.

If only life were simpler, then maybe he could enjoy it more, could live without fearing for his mortality, for the ones he’ll leave behind. For himself, most of all.

“You’ll be okay,” Dean soothes, running a warm hand down Castiel’s spine. Another lie, but Castiel accepts it, falls asleep to Dean whispering into his ear, praising him for things Castiel can’t begin to believe.

 

He wakes later in the evening, long after the sun has set and the residents of Seattle have gone to bed, and for the first time since his arrival, Castiel doesn’t hear the rain. The air conditioner rumbles itself awake and sputters, the refrigerator rattles, the toilet flushes in the room upstairs, and Dean snores and occasionally mumbles in his sleep, holding Castiel close in his arms.

But Castiel can’t hear the rain. All he can do is feel and burrow closer into the blankets, into Dean, and rest while the world outside quiets, the wind a whisper in the night.

“Don’t go,” Dean says in the midst of a dream, his relaxed hand tightening on Castiel’s chest. A dream, yes, but it’s the closest Dean will ever get to expressing what he wants without shame burning him alive, eating his words.

For what it’s worth, Castiel appreciates it, and threads his fingers between Dean’s, clinging tight in the night. “Don’t leave me,” Castiel says, exhaling into the sweat-warmed sheets, his body falling lax. “Don’t let me go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the MUCC song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
